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A review by rebus
The Graphic Canon, Volume 3: From Heart of Darkness to Hemingway to Infinite Jest by Russ Kick
4.5
This was by far my favorite of the 3 volumes, owing to being far more familiar with much of the content and also appreciating modern literature much more than most ancient types (I think I'd read over 35 of the 80 books here and am now inspired to read far more of these authors, which I cannot say about the earlier volumes). It's also ongoing proof that the late Russ Kick was sort of an establishment tool and a moron, since he practically worships the execrable and far right wing Harold Bloom as the greatest critic of all time. Kick is also enough of a pinhead to decry irony as 'smarmy and hollow' in his defense of the sincerity of David Foster Wallace (my favorite author and someone who was NOT immune to the use of irony). He even calls Burrough's exploration of drugs something 'dark' when drugs have always been eye opening for those who use them properly (having died at the age of 52 with not much more than editorial credits to his name, Kick could hardly talk of such things without being a hypocrite). Kick should also have known--since he tried to make a living as a far left analyst who exposed society's flaws--that Lincoln was actually extremely pro slavery before political expedience became an issue, and the New Orleans episode didn't happen. He was also dead wrong to say that Orwell imagined a fascist world; he was DESCRIBING the way the world has been since Day One of human civilization. Hammett and Chandler were also far from the best noir writers, as the title is actually a tie between James M. Cain and Jim Thompson (no other crime writers come close).
A few impressions now about some things I didn't know about some of these works and authors...
It was sad to discover that Kipling's famous poem was really a rationalization of white privilege (or supremacy). ONLY the entitled can afford (literally) not to worry about outcomes.
It's amazing to see that the themes most prominent in my modern reading lists were present a little over 125 years ago. That is, that intellectual abstraction and industrialism were a plague that pushed us out of contact with nature, instinct and our bodies, that the intellect often served only as bit and bridle to control society.
Gibran was correct to note that we should love one another but not make a bond of love, that the man who loses all of his masks becomes the madman.
I appreciate Sartre even more now, because my grandfather would also get angry and stare off into the distance if I asked him about killing anyone in WWII (telling me it's nothing anyone should be proud of).
Anais Nin has now inspired me with her notion that there are no neat endings to novels, no synthesis of deep insight, that all meaning is contained within the body of the story that each climax (haha) creates an awareness and growth much like that of the rings of a tree.
There is much exceptional material here, though I beg to differ about authors like Hemingway, Joyce, and Fitzgerald, all of whom bore me to tears.
A few impressions now about some things I didn't know about some of these works and authors...
It was sad to discover that Kipling's famous poem was really a rationalization of white privilege (or supremacy). ONLY the entitled can afford (literally) not to worry about outcomes.
It's amazing to see that the themes most prominent in my modern reading lists were present a little over 125 years ago. That is, that intellectual abstraction and industrialism were a plague that pushed us out of contact with nature, instinct and our bodies, that the intellect often served only as bit and bridle to control society.
Gibran was correct to note that we should love one another but not make a bond of love, that the man who loses all of his masks becomes the madman.
I appreciate Sartre even more now, because my grandfather would also get angry and stare off into the distance if I asked him about killing anyone in WWII (telling me it's nothing anyone should be proud of).
Anais Nin has now inspired me with her notion that there are no neat endings to novels, no synthesis of deep insight, that all meaning is contained within the body of the story that each climax (haha) creates an awareness and growth much like that of the rings of a tree.
There is much exceptional material here, though I beg to differ about authors like Hemingway, Joyce, and Fitzgerald, all of whom bore me to tears.